Kiss Me Annabel. Eloisa JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Three

       Grillon’s Hotel

       After midnight

      Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore, was fairly certain that he was obeying Father Armailhac’s instructions to the letter. ‘Go to London,’ he had said. ‘Dance with a pretty girl.’

      ‘And just what am I supposed to do with this pretty girl?’ Ewan had inquired.

      ‘Surely the spirit will move you,’ Father Armailhac had said. For a monk, he had a wicked twinkle at times.

      And so far, Ewan had met a multitude of pretty girls. Due to his terrible memory, he couldn’t remember any of their names, but he reckoned he must have danced with half of London by now. Thanks to his title, he had been showered by invitations within a few days of his arrival; it seemed that the English were not quite so blasé about Scottish titles as was rumoured in the north country. Yet it seemed to him that Father Armailhac had meant he should meet a particular girl, one whom he could contemplating wooing and bringing back to Scotland.

      He had no objection to marrying, although he couldn’t say he felt passionate enthusiasm for the idea. His mind slid easily from marriage to the long, clean rows of his stables, the golden fields of spring wheat just beginning to sprout. He could give this marrying business another fortnight. Then he would return home, married or no.

      The black-haired lass he had danced with this evening seemed more than ready to hop before the altar. But what was her name? He couldn’t remember. She had clung to him like a limpet, which he didn’t care for much. Yet perhaps the lady was desperate, widowed as she was, and likely with naught more than a small dowry.

      His manservant appeared at the door, a silver plate in his hand. Ewan might not be enjoying London much, but Glover was ecstatic. All his ambitions were fulfilled by being in the city, as he called it, during the season. ‘Your lordship, a card has arrived.’

      ‘At this hour? Just put it over there,’ Ewan said, nodding at the mantelpiece. It was crowded with cards and invitations from people he’d never heard of.

      Glover bowed but didn’t move toward the fireplace. ‘Your lordship, this card is from the Duke of Holbrook. And’ – Glover lowered his voice to an awed whisper – ‘His Grace has condescended to wait.’

      Ewan sighed. A duke. Perhaps the man was desperate to send one of his daughters off into the supposed wilds of Scotland. He’d figured out soon enough that the English thought of Scotland as a wilderness of crazed warriors and grim religious dissenters.

      He glanced at his cravat in the mirror. Glover was brokenhearted at his refusal to change his customary black for the gaudy waistcoats Englishmen wore to balls. But he looked fine and, more importantly, Scottish. Scotsmen wore kilts if they felt the need for a little colour, even if they weren’t allowed to wear them in this country.

      ‘His Grace awaits you in the sitting room,’ Glover said.

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘If you’ll excuse the boldness, my lord,’ Glover said, hesitating.

      Ewan raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

      ‘A duke of the realm,’ Glover said, trembling with the excitement of it. ‘Try to avoid Scottish phrases such as aye. ‘Twill make an unpleasant impression on His Grace.’

      ‘I’m not marrying him,’ Ewan said, but then softened. ‘But thank you for the advice, Glover. I shall do my best to appear reasonably English.’ Not that he would ever wish to mimic an Englishman, not in a hundred years.

      The duke was a messy sort, Ewan saw with some relief. In fact, the sort who would take no offense at an occasional aye. Ewan had already had several conversations with the perfumed, sleek type of English nobility, and he didn’t care for them. No more did they him.

      This duke was dressed in clothes that looked comfortable rather than elegant. His stomach strained comfortably over the waist of his pantaloons, and as Ewan stood in the doorway of the room, his guest threw back a glass of brandy that Glover must have given him with all the enthusiasm of one of Ewan’s labourers greeting the evening.

      ‘Your Grace,’ Ewan said, entering the room. ‘This is indeed a pleasure.’

      The duke straightened like a bloodhound and turned around. Ewan almost took a step back. Bloody hell, the man looked enraged. And now he remembered precisely where he’d met him before. If you could call it a meeting; the duke had snatched the black-haired lady from his arms and danced with her himself.

      ‘Do you know who I am?’ he said. His voice was as deep and burly as his figure.

      ‘According to your card, you are the Duke of Holbrook,’ Ewan observed. He moved over to the sideboard. ‘May I offer you another drink?’ He dropped the Your Grace part as it made him feel faintly servant-like.

      ‘I am the guardian of Lady Maitland,’ the man announced.

      ‘Quite so,’ Ewan murmured, pouring himself a stiff glass. ‘Well, I am the Earl of Ardmore, hailing from Aberdeenshire, if you were not already aware of the fact.’

      ‘Lady Maitland,’ Holbrook insisted. ‘Imogen Maitland.’

      Imogen must be the black-haired charmer from the ballroom. ‘If I have offended you or the lady in any way, I offer my sincere apologies,’ Ewan said, striving for diplomacy.

      ‘Well, I should say you have!’ the duke huffed.

      ‘How?’ Ewan inquired. He kept his tone easy and even.

      ‘All London is talking of the two of you,’ Holbrook snapped. ‘Of your tasteless exhibition of waltzing.’

      Ewan thought for a moment. He had two alternatives: to tell the truth, or to take responsibility. Honour demanded that he not reveal the fact that Holbrook’s ward had clung to him with all the expert passion of a Bird of Paradise. He was no fool: the black-haired Imogen was far less moved by his beauty than she had pretended to be. He caught some sort of emotion in her eyes, but it didn’t seem to be pure lust, even if that was the emotion that she was flaunting.

      ‘I apologise in every respect,’ he said finally. ‘I was bowled over by her beauty and I gather it led to my actions being interpreted in an unpleasant light.’

      Holbrook narrowed his eyes. Ewan gazed back at him, wondering if all dukes in England were so undisciplined in their emotions and dress.

      ‘I’ll have that drink now,’ the duke said.

      Ewan picked up his personal decanter and poured him a healthy glass. Holbrook had the distinct atmosphere of a man who enjoyed a good brandy, and Ewan had brought with him several flasks of the best aged whisky to be found in Scotland.

      Holbrook took one large sip and then looked at Ewan in surprise. He sank into a couch and took another sip.

      Ewan sat down opposite him. He could see that Holbrook understood exactly what he was drinking.

      ‘What is it?’ Holbrook said, his voice hushed.

      ‘An aged single malt,’ Ewan said. ‘A new process and one likely to change the whisky industry, to my mind.’

      Holbrook took another sip and sat back, ‘Glen Garioch,’ he said dreamily. ‘Glen Garioch or – possibly – Tobermary.’

      Ewan gave him a real grin this time. ‘Aye, Glen Garioch it is.’

      ‘Bliss,’ Holbrook said. ‘Almost, I could let a man who knew his whisky marry Imogen. Almost!’ he said, opening his eyes again.

      ‘I’ve